


The Tolling

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles reflects upon his choices as he drinks away his feelings and the bell tolls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tolling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Davechicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/gifts), [BeaRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/gifts).



> This is to help me process my feelings about episode 2x06. My feelings are that a little self-flagellation would do Miles a world of good. 
> 
> Thanks for telling me to fic it out, guys ;)

Despite everything he’d done, Miles had always considered himself a good man. Not a kind man, not a gentle man, not even an honest man (if, ironically, he had to be honest with himself about it). But a good man. A man whose moral compass actually knew True North, even if he may have at times wandered off due South. He had to believe that his goodness could be measured by his intentions, not so much by his deeds.

He was wrong.

The whisky burned his throat, but not enough. A part of him wished he had been drinking acetone instead. Gone blind too. It wasn’t fair to still be able to see, not after the last thing he saw. Bass. Tears streaking down his dirty face. Bass yelling at him. And still - he didn’t say “I hate you, Miles! Go to Hell, Miles!” 

_How could you do that to me, Miles?_

Because that wasn’t hatred. That was the opposite of hatred. That was what you said to the person you loved most in the world when they betrayed you, wasn’t it? Because after everything (and that everything was a heaping pile when you threw in attempted murder), Bass still loved him. Still thought of him as a brother. Still believed that deep down Miles could never hurt him.

He had been wrong too.

The whisky burned and the bell tolled. And in addition to wishing he had gone blind, Miles also wished he had gone deaf. The sound of that bell, mockingly singing, “Co-ward, ass-hole, ding-dong.” He was those things. He couldn’t even go to the execution, stand next to Charlie, hold _her_ hand, feel her pulse quicken as they stuck that needle into Bass’ arm. He pictured it, even without being there. Rachel’s stoic face, Gene’s quivering lower lip. And Charlie, gone from trying to kill the man to desperately trying to save him. He felt her loss keenly too: she was losing something, something important, before it had a chance to really blossom.

It was a kindness to her, really. Sebastian Monroe was like the sun. You stare at it too long, don’t use sunscreen, who knows what can happen. Metastases, possibly.

But, _fuck_ , he had been a coward.

He couldn’t even say good-bye correctly. Had to fuck that up too. Couldn’t even reach out, wrap his arms around Bass one last time, hold him, feel the beating of his heart, lie to him properly, tell him he was going to a better place, that he had forgiven him, loved him, loved him still, loved him above all others. No. That wouldn’t have been the lie. Not that last thing. Instead, he shook his goddamn hand - and not even properly, but through his _stupid_ cast.

Why couldn’t he turn whisky into arsenic? Hell, maybe Aaron could do it? Like a water into wine, whisky into arsenic kind of a miracle? Maybe he could set him on fire with his mind (Miles didn’t really believe that bullshit story, but it would have been convenient), melt his damn skin off until there was nothing left except charred bones. And even those bones would be the bones of a co-ward, ass-hole, ding-dong, the bell tolled.

Bass was dead.

He was dead, and Miles couldn’t even cry properly, because tears were forbidden him. Tears were a release, tears were what happened when you could acknowledge that something went terribly wrong, tears were healing. And Miles couldn’t heal, didn’t deserve it, wasn’t fit for it.

A part of him was dead and buried. A part. Bass. He had, at one point, a very long time ago, been the best of him. Eyes so blue, so full of love, that Miles thought he could see his own inner goodness reflected in those pools, reflected back at him, his own reflection come back resplendent once passed through those magical orbs. He only loved himself because Bass had found it in his power to love him.

So, death it was then. He was a coward anyways, so the easy way out seemed fitting. Perhaps the whisky hadn’t cirrhosed his liver fast enough, and refused to burn his esophagus, and make him blind and deaf. Perhaps a bullet would be more kind. What was it Bass had said about lethal injection? Texas was adorable. Miles smiled despite himself.

He should have held him. Should have kissed his eyelids. Should have kissed his lips. Should definitely not have played that “Stu Redman” game. Should have just shut the hell up about the boy. _Fuck._ How did he always manage to fuck up the most important things in his life?

Should have said, “It’s always been you. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done. To you. To _us_. I promise I will make it up to you. If not in this life, then in the next.” Should have said, “I’ve always loved you. I don’t want you to die. Please, don’t leave me.”

Now, he couldn’t even say those things to his bottle.

Now, he just had his gun, and the two bullets left in the barrel. One for whoever had betrayed Bass, one for himself. He put his hand on his holster and stumbled off the stool, his vision blurry, but the tolling in his mind as sharp as if it were still sounding over Willoughby.

“Miles,” Rachel’s voice hovered in the air, like a hummingbird. “Come with me. I have to show you something.”

He looked into her eyes and saw what he never thought he’d see there. Hope. He blinked, and two big tears rolled down his face.

He didn’t deserve a second chance, God knows, he didn’t. 

But he was going to take it anyways.


End file.
